


Saints and Sinners

by Dawnwind



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Angst, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-03
Updated: 2012-11-03
Packaged: 2017-11-17 17:03:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/553859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawnwind/pseuds/Dawnwind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Starsky and Hutch go to Northern California to escort a prisoner from San Quentin and end up having a far better day than they'd planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saints and Sinners

Saints and Sinners  
by Dawnwind

"I will not budge on this. Foster Devereaux may be a convicted murderer but he's still my patient and I won't release him for travel for at least a day, maybe two." Dr. Alberto Villanova crossed his arms over his burly chest, refusing access to his prisoner.

"Why couldn't you have told us before we left?" Starsky practically snarled, baring his teeth at the doctor who presided San Quentin Prison's infirmary ward. "Could have saved us the trip."

"Starsk, it's only an hour on the plane," Hutch said, resisting the urge to run a gentling hand down his partner's back. "Sorry about my partner, Doctor, he's been in strange mood since we got off the plane."

"As much as you may think it an inconvenience," Dr. Villanova said. "think of how Mr. Devereaux feels. He may have had a mild heart attack."

"He raped and killed two teenaged girls!" Starsky smacked the exam room table, staring at the adjacent infirmary ward as if he could burn a hole right through the solid wall to get at the prisoner. "What about them? And the kids Cahill killed?"

"Once I have consulted with the cardiologist at Marin General on how to proceed further, I can advise Warden Glasgow on whether or not Mr. Devereaux can be transferred," Villanova said without moving. "I realize that there is a trial about to commence and he's needed to testify, but I cannot jeopardize his health."

"Okay," Hutch sighed. "We'll check into a hotel and stay one night. If he can't go on a plane tomorrow, other arrangements will have to be made because I doubt our department is going to pay for an indefinite stay. We'll call back in the morning?"

"That sounds sufficient," Villanova conceded, nodding. "Leave the number of your hotel with the Warden." He stood resolutely in front of the door to the ward, refusing them even a word with the prisoner and didn't move until Starsky and Hutch left.

"Didn't want t'go on this babysitting job anyway. Bastard should rot in solitude, not get a reduced sentence just because he sings about Cahill to the B.C.D.A.," Starsky muttered as he followed Hutch down the corridor to the exit. "It's bad enough that he won't get charged for any part of the murder he saw Cahill do!" He collected his Beretta from the guard at the entrance of the prison and slotted the gun back in the empty holster with a grunt.

"Cahill butchered the other four children on his own," Hutch said soberly. He could still picture the gruesome spectacle of Alvin Cahill's victims. The children had disappeared one by one over a six month period. Then, on a horrible January morning, all five had been found together, laid out side by side as if sharing a bed at a macabre sleep-over. Cahill had cut off their limbs and then divvied them out at random. One girl's body with a boy's arms and another girl's legs, and so on. There was massive media coverage with TV and magazine articles showing cute school pictures of the victims and interviews with their grieving families. Foster Devereux, just sentenced to 30 years in San Quentin for the rapes and murders committed previously, had boasted that he knew who the murderer was. He'd given startlingly explicit details, proving that he'd been there when the first child was snatched and killed. The state was now ready to take Cahill to trial, and Devereaux's testimony was an enormous part of the prosecution's case. "We need to call D.A. Mortonson ASAP. He'll have to ask for a delay."

"So what are we supposed to do until tomorrow?" Starsky stalked over to the white rental sedan in the SQ visitor parking lot. He leaned against the car with a scowl, kicking at the blacktop, scuffing the end of his brand new pair of blue and white adidas.

"Admire the scenery?" Hutch suggested, waving an arm at the San Pablo Bay lapping the shoreline a short distance away. He intentionally shoved the memories of little John Doble and the four other children into a dark file drawer in his mind and let nature restore his soul. Rolling golden hills studded with bushy dark green live oak trees spread out on three sides with the sea on the fourth.

A ferry boat was heading toward them, its white prow churning the water into frothy waves. Seagulls circled in the sky right above the boat, hoping for handouts from the passengers.

"The ferry must dock somewhere over that way." Hutch pointed to the right but the prison sat on a small outcropping of land and the coastline curved inward, obscuring their view of the terminal. Hutch walked over to the edge of the parking lot, peering down the serpentine two-lane road. "C'mon, let's go check it out. We need to find a phone, at least."

"Big difference between Quentin and the LA county prison out in the middle of a huge barren flatness." Starsky climbed in behind the wheel. "This one's right in the middle of everything." He drove out of the parking lot and headed to the left, coming out on a pretty peninsula with a white futuristic ferry terminal on one side of the road and a shopping mall built of rustic wood on the other. "If any of the prisoners got loose, they could just hop on a ferry and be in San Francisco before you know it."

"Can't send 'em to Alcatraz any longer," Hutch commented. "The guards seemed to be doing their job at Quentin."

"Three guys got away from Alcatraz in a dingy made of rubber raincoats, didja know that?" Starsky countered. "Any guy locked up is going to try to escape."

"How 'bout over there?" Hutch pointed to a Chinese restaurant in the mall. "Phone booth to make calls, and food for your rumbling belly. If you were so worried about Devereaux getting away from us, why didn't you say something before?"

"I wasn't!" Starsky retorted, maneuvering the car into a parking space. "There's just something wrong with the system when Devereaux can bargain his two murders against Cahill's five and come out smelling like some tainted rose."

"Amen to that," Hutch agreed. "Starsk, you're preaching to the choir here. But if what he says can bring some peace to the families of those kids . . ." He shrugged, getting out of the car. "This is going to be some downer of a trip unless we can think of something else to talk about." He took a deep breath, once against working to dispel the images of the dead children that had haunted him since he and Starsky had been called in on the case.

The salt air ruffled the bangs on his forehead as he faced into the wind coming off the bay. Out in the water, there was a wooded island and the dim outline of a bridge spanning the eastern end, and he realized with surprise that west was behind him. In LA country, the coast was always to the west but here, with its myriad coves and sheltered inlets, he felt turned around as if he'd stepped into a completely different state. There was even a tunnel just past the Golden Gate bridge painted with all the colors of the rainbow. Marin County was rumored to be a rich man's wonderland, full of extravagant spending and naked frolicking in redwood paneled hot tubs with peacock feathers waving in a marijuana scented breeze.. So far, Hutch liked the hilly area, but hadn't seen any sign of rich hippies cavorting in the nude.

"Yeah, no more Devereaux," Starsky announced, apparently shedding his morose mood. "Let's take advantage of half a day off with pay." He grinned, snapping his fingers and giving Hutch a leer than went straight to the groin. "We're could go right back up the freeway to San Francisco, wanna take a wild ride on the Castro side of the street?" Starsky waggled his eyebrows, performing a bump and grind of jean clad hips that would have gotten him a job at any gay nightclub. "Or we could catch the ferry back, check out some bars . . ."

"Not while on duty, Starsk," Hutch said, although the thought was tantalizing. "If IA got even a whiff of funny business . . ."

"Spoilsport," Starsky chided right into Hutch's ear. His breath was warm and inviting. "At least the department is so cheap we always have to get a single hotel room. Can't complain we were paddin' the expense account or anything, and we could order in, watch something on HBO. Maybe . . . make out?"

"Do you always have sex on the brain?" Hutch asked. As if it wasn't the first thing he thought about when he woke up and the last thing he fantasized about before going to bed. "I've never been to San Rafael, I thought we could combine business with pleasure . . ."

"You said it, I didn't."

"And sightsee. Learn about Marin County. It's the third time I've come up to San Quentin to escort a prisoner and the first time I've ever had some time to explore. And we drove through that time with Linda Williams, too"

"Aka Joanne Mello-Wells? Or was it Wells-Mello?" Starsky snarked. "What's there to see?" He headed over to the door of Yet Wah, pausing to read the posted menu. "Accordin' to this, we're not even in San Rafael, Dorothy, even if we did come over the rainbow." He tapped the address printed at the top of the menu. "This is Larkspur Landing."

"Under the rainbow," Hutch corrected, with a laugh. Starsky always kept him lighthearted, even when life was difficult. "You know that magazine I was reading on the plane? Said that George Lucas lives around here. The reporter claimed that rainbow tunnel lead right into Neverland, not Oz. Just in case you were expecting to find the wizard here."

"Just want a spring roll with my name on it." Starsky rubbed his flat belly, letting his hand wander down toward his groin, smirking at his partner the whole time. He inserted fingers into his tight jeans pocket, obviously outlining his prominent bulge for maximum viewing appreciation and extracted a handful of change. "Don't ever say I didn't give you anything," he teased, dumping half a dozen dimes and nickels into Hutch's palm.

"I'll call Mortonson and explain the situation." Realizing he'd been skillfully played, Hutch accepted the job and the coins. "Go up and order me some sizzling rice soup and won tons."

"He's gonna shit rockets," Starsky said by way of a goodbye and went inside.

Hutch fed enough money into the pay phone to do two loads of wash at the Venice Suds-a lot Laundromat, before he got through to Mortonson. The D.A. nearly did have the predicted nuclear meltdown, shouting obscenities as if he'd ingested a slang dictionary whole. Hutch held the phone about five inches away from his ear and could still hear the lawyer ranting and raving about Devereaux's insensitivity.

"I'll get to the bottom of this!" he shouted. "You and Starsky need to get over to the Marin Civic Center pronto and meet with Devereaux's attorney!"

"What's his name?" Hutch sighed, seeing his day of sightseeing go up in a whirl of meetings with lawyers and other legal personnel involved in the prisoner's case.

"Sydney McNear." Mortonson snarled. "Tell that bastard I won't stand for stalling. The reduced sentence stands as long as Devereaux delivers. Otherwise, Judge Lee won't budge."

"Sydney McNear," Hutch repeated. "Got his number?"

"Look it up, for God's sake, I'm not your personal secretary!" Mortonson hung up with a bang that nearly popped Hutch's eardrum.

Rubbing the side of his aching head, he went in search of his partner and lunch. Starsky had already started in on a plate of crisply fried spring rolls when Hutch sat down in the dimly lit restaurant.

"Blister your ears?" Starsky asked sympathetically. "He always did remind me of my Great Uncle Volk the way he explodes every time there's a change in plans."

"That why you didn't immediately volunteer to make the call?" Hutch helped himself to a spring roll and dunked it in the spicy dip. "Said we need to go to the Civic Center to talk to Devereaux's local counsel."

"Need a map," Starsky said succinctly just as the rest of their meal was delivered.

Hutch made a few more phone calls after lunch while Starsky investigated the bookstore across from the restaurant. A local map and a guide book solved at least one problem. The Civic Center was not even ten miles away, a straight shot up the 101 freeway. Starsky took the wheel, leaving Hutch to divide his time between the guide book and the scenery. They drove over a sloping grade and down into a valley, once again surrounded by hills on three sides with the bay to the right.

"San Rafael is the county seat," Hutch read out of the guide book. "Founded in 1817 when the Mission San Rafael the Archangel was built. Hey, this is one of the original twenty-one missions! That I've got to see."

"Why? Didn't you get enough of that in school?" Starsky groused. "Oh, you musta studied something else in state history, huh?"

"No missions in Minnesota, or Oregon or Washington," Hutch listed the states his father had moved them to during his childhood. "Which is why I'd like to see it."

"Not much different than San Juan Batista or Santa Barbara, and you've seen them," Starsky said, watching traffic as they went over an overpass above San Rafael. "If I remember right, San Rafael was built because the Indians in the San Francisco mission caught the measles from the Mexican priests and needed to be isolated."

"That's exactly correct," Hutch agreed, consulting is book. "How did you remember that?"

"My girlfriend got the measles the month we studied the missions." Starsky laughed at the memory. "Good thing I'd already had 'em when I was six, in New York. The big joke was we should send Francie to San Rafael to sleep with the Indians."

"Sounds like that relationship didn't last long."

"Broke up with her by the time we were on the chapter for Mission Solano up North--the last one. Chrissie Southern built the best sugar cube missions in the whole school. You wanted a good grade in missions, you hung with Chrissie." Starsky smacked his lips. "Lips like sugar--and what she knew how to do with her hands . . ."

"Starsk! There's the off-ramp for the civic center!" Hutch shouted, pointing at a road to their right. Starsky swung the wheel hard, crossing over one lane that was luckily free of an oncoming cars and bumping down a steep incline.

Hugged between two rounded hills, the Marin Civic Center looked like an oblong alien spaceship situated neatly in a wooded knoll with a uniquely curved blue roof and pink stucco walls. A strange gold spire rose up on the far end as if the grounded aliens were trying to signal the stars from Earth.

"Different," Starsky observed, climbing out of the car to look up at the building. He tilted his head one way and then the other with a frown.

"'Designed by Frank Lloyd Wright,'" Hutch read out of the guide. He looked upward, too, taking in the sleek, sensual lines and high arched windows. "It was the only government building he ever designed, in the latter part of his career."

"Think he meant it to be pink and blue?" Starsky wondered aloud, leading the way to the glass doors. "Prisoners around here get nicer views than in So Cal. Jail's over that way."

The interior was a maze of different levels with confusing elevators that didn't all seem to go to the same floors. Wandering around in confusion, they found themselves in a spacious library. The librarian pointed out a different set of elevators which brought them up to a sunny cafeteria, but no nearer to the lawyer's officers than they had originally been.

"I'm starving." Starsky stopped in front of the dining room . "If we're going to be trekking down one end of the building and up the other looking for this guy's office, I need food."

"You always want food," Hutch said, examining the menu. "They have some nice avocado and sprout sandwiches."

"I don't want rabbit food, I want . . ." Starsky headed to a tall serve-yourself freezer stocked with ice cream treats. "Something different. I'll get an It's It."

"What's that-that?" Hutch asked with a grin, handing the cafeteria cashier eighty cents.

"This is good! The wrapper says that it's made in San Francisco," he answered, biting down with a crunch. "Oatmeal cookie and ice cream covered with chocolate."

"You're dripping all over the floor," Hutch pointed out, moving Starsky out of the cashier line to let others buy their food.

"Wanna bite?" Starsky held the ice cream sandwich up to Hutch's lips.

Hutch sank his teeth into the snack, savoring the blend of cookie, chocolate and vanilla ice cream. He could have gobbled up the entire thing, but contented himself with another bite, cupping one hand under his chin to prevent any more drips.

"Got ice cream on your lip." Starsky ran his thumb slowly across Hutch's bottom lip with a smile so sexually potent that Hutch got an instant erection.

"Starsk! We're . . ." Hutch was about to say 'in a public place' but he stopped himself, seeing the amused expression on the male cashier's face. This was Northern California, after all, where gays were more accepted. Still he didn't want to out himself and his partner in the middle of the Marin Civic Center.

Starsky bent over his treat, licking the ice cream with the tip of his tongue, his blue eyes dark with merriment. He winked.

"We're supposed to be finding this Sydney McNear and I haven't even seen a building directory yet!" Hutch complained, squeezing his thighs together to bring his cock under control. The damned thing kept twitching in Starsky's direction like it had a compass on the end.

"Did you say Sydney McNear?" A tall slender woman looked over at Hutch. She had short, feathered brown hair and wore a conservative blue suit with a bright blue and lavender paisley silk blouse looked over at Hutch. She handed the increasingly amused cashier a ten. "I'm Sydney."

"Oh, ma'am!" Starsky gulped the last of his cookie so fast he choked, coughing harshly. Hutch pounded him on the back and even the cashier stopped picking coins out of his drawer to watch.

"Are you all right?" Sydney asked, hovering.

"I know the Heimlich maneuver!" the cashier volunteered hopefully, raising his hand.

"I'm good," Starsky gasped between ragged coughs. "Went down the wrong pipe."

"Detective Ken Hutchinson from Bay City P.D. And the choking victim here is my partner Dave Starsky." He held out his gold badge for her inspection.

"Ah-ha, Mr. Mortonson called just before I went out to lunch. I told my secretary to be on the look out for you two." Sydney led the way across the room to a table overlooking the main corridor. A skylight two floors up kept the entire area flooded with early September sun. "Mind if I eat first?"

"We got lost," Starsky managed, dropping into a chair.

"And we were . . ." Hutch started, not sure how to say it without sounding chauvinistic.

"Expecting a man?" Sydney laughed. She nodded, munching on a French fry. "I get that all the time. My father wanted sons. He got three daughters and not one of us wanted any part of the family brick yard business, much to his chagrin."

"It's a beautiful name," Hutch said to smooth over his faux pas. "I'm sure Mortonson filled you in on Devereaux. Loudly."

"Which I was certainly well aware of," Sydney agreed, slicing her sandwich in half. "The Warden called me about eight this morning, before I was even in my office, about Foster's possible heart attack. I'm sorry, guys, right now, I have to go with the medical opinion. If Alberto Villanova says he can't travel, he can't. He isn't a man prone to hyperbole." She ate a quarter of the sandwich and two more fries. "My hands are tied here--and I was all for Foster doing something right for once. He's started on a twelve step program, wants to atone."

"You think this turning over a new leaf is legit?" Starsky asked. "Or a bid to escape?"

She shrugged, rolling her eyes. "Both. I want to see good in all my clients, and Foster can be -- at times -- very sweet and funny. The rest of the time he's quite disturbed." She picked at the sprouts poking out of her sandwich. "I'm no bleeding heart liberal--I know the whole Marin stereotype, but he had a hard life that very obviously contributed to his actions."

"So you condone rape and murder if the circumstances brought a man to violence?" Hutch sat back, brushing his thigh against Starsky's. His touchstone in all things.

"Never," Sydney answered. "Just understanding what can happen when there's no one to intervene on a young man's behalf before it's too late. By the time I met Foster Devereaux, it was way too late. He'd spent half his life in and out of state facilities. He doesn't even know how to behave on the outside."

"Sounds like every ex-con I ever met," Starsky said. "Always got some kind of reasoning why it's never their fault. I'm here to tell you that it's possible to change course in midstream and swim against the current."

"You a sailor?" Sydney asked curiously.

"Nah, just a survivor." Starsky glanced at his partner. From the grim cast in his eyes, Hutch knew he was thinking of his brother Nick and countless other people they'd known who hadn't quite managed to stay inside the law.

"Which means we have the rest of the day to wait for the cardiologist's exam," Hutch said, casually sliding his arm along the back of the chairs so that his fingers touched Starsky's shoulders. "You have any suggestions of where to go? We've never been to San Rafael."

"You've got to see the mission, of course," Sydney finished off her fries but left half the sandwich on the plate.

"First on my list," Hutch agreed even though Starsky groaned. "Some history for this guy and maybe some culture, too."

Sydney considered for a moment, "There's a theater and concert hall just over the lagoon here. As for history, the Miwok Indians lived in these hills until the last one died about seventy five years ago."

"Did they get the measles?" Starsky rolled his eyes.

"I haven't studied up on them since we had to learn about the missions," she admitted, consulting her watch. "I've got to be in court in ten minutes. I'd rather tour you around than defend a kid on his second drug related charge. I could give you a tour of this building. It's an historic landmark."

"I think we've already done that," Starsky said. "Twice around the place. Any fun stuff?"

"There's the Falkirk House, which is an old restored Queen Anne style mansion downtown--not exactly a happening place, but there are often local dances there." She folded her napkin neatly over the leftover sandwich. "The Dominican Convent and college on Grand Ave is gorgeous, and if you like winding roads, the drive around China Camp is exhilarating, especially in this gorgeous weather."

"China Camp?" Starsky asked so eagerly Hutch had to laugh. Starsky was always ready for a drive.

"Where the Chinese fisherman lived in the 1800s--near my family's brickyard. Out North San Pedro road to the bay." Sydney pointed to her left.

Once again Hutch felt discombobulated. That couldn't be north, except when he looked toward the skylight, he could see the sun beams coming through at a transverse angle, indicating the sun was moving to the west. After the straight up and down coastline of the southland, he was having a hard time acclimating himself to a shoreline that curled around the bays like a snake.

"We've got a map and a guide book." Starsky jumped up, bouncing on his toes. "Thanks for the suggestions. Just one more--you know of a good hotel?"

"I know of a great place you can stay." Sydney stood as well, brushing crumbs from her form-fitting blue skirt. "My sister Roberta and her husband just opened up a bed and breakfast in the Dominican area, on Belle. Lovely old house with four bedrooms and a cat that will sleep with you." She laughed. "Just try to keep Figaro from sleeping with you."

"Sounds great," Hutch said, as she jotted down the address and phone number.

"Listen, I'll call Mortonson and get him off your backs." Sydney handed over the directions. "It's not your fault our witness will probably be a no show. I know how to talk to blow-hards like him, lawyer to lawyer."

"Any time you're in Bay City, look us up." Starsky shook her hand. "Tour's not as good, but we do have a couple of places to eat where you won't get ptomaine poisoning."

"How could I refuse," Sydney laughed. "There is a legal conference coming up in November, so I may take you up on the offer. My girlfriend comes from Redondo, actually, and she likes to get back that way whenever she can. We could make a foursome, and not even have to double date."

She waggled her fingers at them, sauntering off, leaving Starsky gaping. Hutch was fairly certain his face had a similar stunned expression.

"How did she know?" Starsky asked rhetorically.

"You weren't exactly hiding the flirting."

"Nothing more than I do all the time."

"Exactly." Hutch looked both ways in the corridor and set off in the direction he was almost sure he'd last seen the elevator.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

China Camp was a meandering state park of salt marshes leading out to bright bay waters reflecting the brilliant blue sky. The air was full of bird song and red tailed hawks wheeled in the jetstreams overhead. A snowy egret walked carefully through the water on pipe-cleaner legs. Starsky parked the car on a little turn-out and they hiked the short distance to the shore, rolling up their pants to wade in the icy surf.

"My feet are going numb." Hutch laughed, running back to the pebbly sand. He sat down on a long piece of driftwood, watching Starsky dig his toes in the sand as the undertow tugged at him. Salt water swirled around his ankles, churning up little rocks and bits of kelp. Starsky beamed, the smile of an exuberant child in love with life. It was hard to believe that only a year ago he had just gotten out of the hospital after Gunther's goons nearly assassinated him.

These were moments to cherished, to preserve as perfect memories for whenever the bad times were too hard. Out here, the images of John Doble and his fellow murdered playmates were horrific but Hutch could hold them more easily, knowing that he had arrested the killer. He mentally resurrected each of the dead children, picturing them in their happy school photos--Kimmy Jones, missing her two front teeth. Melissa Pine, her black curls twisted in two dozen little braids all clipped with red and blue barrettes. John Doble, freckles across his nose. Dougie Swanson, the youngest of the victims, red hair standing up in back like Alfalfa's. And lastly, Sara Carstairs who had disappeared only two weeks before her body was found, wearing the same gold cross she had worn in her picture.

Hutch let their ghosts free to play in on the beach, build sandcastles and warm their faces in the sun. "Be free," he whispered. "Stay innocent."

"Hey." Starsky nudged Hutch with one sandy bare foot and plopped down on the log beside him. "You all right? Look like you've seen a ghost."

"I think I have." Hutch smiled to relieve the worry on Starsky's face. "But it's all right. Better, anyway." He held up the guide book, referring to the last page he'd read just before they got out of the car. "Did you know there was a murder out here?"

"I thought we weren't going to talk about murder anymore." Starsky shook sand off his feet, wiggling his toes. "Who was it?"

"You just can't keep your nose out of the dirt, huh?"

"You brought it up!" Starsky grabbed the book, turning to the entry on Marlene Olive. "'Teenaged girl from Terra Linda murdered her father and mother with the help of boyfriend Chuck Riley who later claimed that the girl had mesmerized him with her bewitching green eyes. The bodies were hidden in the China Camp area.'" He snapped the book closed with a grimace. "No more of that stuff! This is supposed to be a vacation."

"It was supposed to be a work day but it turned into a vacation," Hutch corrected, hauling Starsky to his feet. They were suddenly very close together.

"Hey," Starsky said softly, turning his cheek to nuzzle Hutch's.

Stubble scraped on stubble but Hutch didn't mind in the slightest. He sighed, feeling his own breath push against Starsky's face, and the rise and fall of Starsky's chest when their lips met. Their mouths opened, tongues intertwining, time melting into timelessness.

"H'tch . . ." Starsky murmured. "Think we should take this to the bedroom?"

"Mmm, we haven't got one." Hutch kissed each beloved eye, shivering when Starsky's eyelashes fluttered against his lips.

"We will if we call Sydney's sister."

"Spoilsport." Hutch pinched the fleshy part of Starsky's round butt, eliciting a yelp from his victim. "I still want to see the mission."

"Now who's the spoilsport," Starsky complained. He pulled on socks and shoes and unrolled his jeans. The bottom halves of each leg were soaked through. "I'm hungry again."

"C'mon, you can finish driving that winding road. It's a wonder no one drives right off into the bay from here." Hutch hiked up to the car, startled to see a deer standing in the meadow just opposite, its black limpid eyes regarding him curiously.

"Wish I'd brought my camera," Starsky said barely audible. "He looks like we're invading his territory."

"We are," Hutch whispered, enchanted when two more deer flashed past behind their leader. The buck gave them another long stare, ducking his head so that his antlers seemed to bristle, then abruptly turned tail and ran to his herd half hidden in a grove of eucalyptus trees. "Amazing how rural this is when there's a good sized city not ten minutes away."

North San Pedro road followed the coastline for several miles, dipping in and out from under overhanging trees until it finally straightened out just past the brickyard Sydney had mentioned. There was a small bay on the left that came right up to the main roadway, separated by only a low wall of rocks. Tiny houses like something out of a children's fairy story lined the shore. Hutch particularly liked one that was constructed entirely out of brick, the mortar thick and dripping between the red blocks. Brick was rare enough in California, with the stringent building codes due to earthquakes, and to see such a picturesque house amongst the other wooden and stucco structures was rarer still.

They drove into central San Rafael and easily found the mission. Bounded by Fifth Street and Mission, it sat square in the middle of town on a steep lot. The whitewashed building with a red tiled roof was a replica of the original chapel, but it still gave Hutch a real sense of history. He went inside and paused at the little tray of flickering devotional candles and glanced back at Starsky who still lingered by the huge wooden door. Neither he nor Starsky was Catholic, and it had been years since he'd attended church services, but snatches of prayer suddenly crowded his head.

"I'm going to light a candle," he said, dropping change into the donation box. "For the children."

"Yeah," Starsky breathed, but still looked uncertain about walking into the nave. "Are you sure that's . . .uh . . .all right?"

"It's more than all right. It's what should be done." Hutch touched a match to one of the votives, smiling when the flame sparked and grew. He whispered a barely remembered prayer, sending it up to Johnny, Dougie, Kimmy, Melissa, and Sara.

Behind him, he could hear Starsky muttering something in another language that ended with "A-men," accented differently than he'd been taught as a child, but still the same word that bonded all religions together.

With a lightness in his heart, Hutch bowed, walking down the steps from the chapel. He nearly tumbled down the sharp grade of the pavement. Starsky made a mad grab for his arm, hauling him up before he went to his knees.

"Can't take you anywhere," Starsky chided, steadying his shoulder to make sure Hutch was on his feet. "Trip over those big feet, did you?"

"Thanks," Hutch took in a deep breath, the sudden fall had hiked up his adrenaline and his heart was pounding. The feel of Starsky's hand strong on his arm was comforting. "You were quiet in there."

"I never know what to do in a church." Starsky shrugged. "We didn't even go to temple that often." He looked up at the towering palm tree smack against the chapel as if trying to collect his thoughts. "You sometimes wonder . . .what woulda happened if our lives had gone differently?"

"Starsky, not another one of your 'what-ifs' like what if you'd married that girl with a last name beginning with A who sat in the first row in the first grade," Hutch groaned, walking carefully down to the sidewalk.

"No, I mean . . .I was thinking about what Sydney said." He shoved his hands in his pockets. "How Devereaux didn't have such a good life growing up. After my dad died, I didn't care about anything anymore. I did some stuff I'm not too proud of, stuff I don't even want to think about."

"Starsk," Hutch started, dismayed at the pain on Starsky's face.

"There were days when . . ." Starsky stopped next to the car, one hand on the roof, looking away from Hutch as if the parking lot across the street was the most interesting sight of the day. "We'd get into fights, go after other kids . . .if I'd stayed in New York, I could have . . .my life and Devereaux's aren't all that different, on the surface." His voice was flat and hard, hiding the emotions. "I could have gone all the way one time, goaded on by the gang--whadda they call it? When you're not thinking straight, just going along with the others, kinda hypnotized."

"No!" Hutch said sharply, pulling Starsky around so he could force some sense into his dulled blue eyes. "I can't believe that. Starsky, you would never have killed someone."

"I have," Starsky said thickly. "In 'Nam, and in the line of duty . . ." The muscles in his jaw tightened, his mouth thinning into a grim line, and Hutch knew he was thinking about Lonnie Craig. "Maybe not intentionally . . ."

"You are not a killer," Hutch emphasized the words, giving Starsky a little shake before pulling him into an embrace. "You care too much for that."

Starsky clung to him for half a minute before springing away. "That was the soapy segment of the show, folks," he joked, red-faced. He hurried around to the driver's side of the car, talking just a little too fast. "And for the finale, maybe some dinner and a good night's sleep before we have to jet back home without a prisoner to face Mortonson's wrath in person."

"It's okay to be ripped up inside over all this," Hutch said when he slid into his seat. "Those kids are with me all the time."

"Weird thing is, we didn't work on Devereaux's case or anything," Starsky said, inserting the key in the ignition. "But after I read his jacket . . .something happened, I don't know why, but it was like I knew him. Knew guys just like him."

"I still refuse to believe you would have gone that far over the edge," Hutch said. "Even if your mother hadn't stepped in and shipped you west to your aunt, to study the missions."

Starsky snorted a laugh, his natural good humor rising to the surface again. "So, we're in the car. Do we actually have a destination in mind or are we just sitting here for the hell of it?"

"Dinner." Hutch raised one finger. "You wanted food."

"About an hour ago." Starsky grabbed the guide book, flipping to the restaurant section. "Looks like there's a McDonald's out on the Miracle Mile. Does every town have a miracle mile? And why is it so miraculous?"

"No hamburgers, I want a nice sit down meal," Hutch said. "Is there anything close, that we can walk to on Fourth or Fifth Street?"

"Uh--" Starsky ran his finger down the list. "Hey, Las Camelias, just off Fourth Street on Lincoln, rated in the top one hundred local restaurants. Authentic Mexican cwee-zeen."

"Neophyte," Hutch said loftily, knowing that Starsky had deliberately pronounced the French word incorrectly just to get his goat. He shoved the door open and glanced at the parking meter. "You forgot to put money in it. Good thing we didn't get a ticket."

"Had time on it before," Starsky adjusted his sunglasses against the late afternoon sun. "Besides, I gave you all my change at lunch. You got any left?"

"Two dimes." Hutch held them up with a grin and shoved them in the meter. "Now I'm tapped out. You'd better have some money for dinner, since I used all my bills at lunch."

"Why didn't you go to the bank?" Starsky argued, as they walked down Court Street toward Fourth.

"When have I had the time?"

"Well, then, look for a bank!" Starsky got to the corner, and looked up and down the Fourth Street. It was a pleasant shopping thoroughfare with green maple trees planted along the sidewalk. Couples strolled along, window shopping and talking, enjoying the warm day. Starsky shaded his eyes, looking up to the right. "This place looks . . .familiar."

"Did your uncle and aunt ever take you on a road trip, maybe stop here?" Hutch suggested. "My dad was very big on road trips. Now I think he just didn't want to be a passenger in a plane after flying them in the Air Force."

"Only road trip I ever went on was to Tijuana." Starsky crossed the street in step with Hutch. "And that was me, Huggy and Danny Hastings when we were ditching Twelfth grade. My uncle worked on cars, but he didn't drive 'em much. Kinda like your dad with planes." He kept walking with a frown, staring at the buildings on the other side of Fourth.

"There's a ba . . ." Hutch ran smack into his partner when Starsky stopped suddenly. "Starsky! Warn a guy!"

"That theater," Starsky said, pointing to a neon Art Deco sign spelling out "Rafael" in big red letters. This whole street . . .I've seen it before."

"There's a bank back the way we came," Hutch suggested. "Bank of America. You have a Versateller card, don't you?"

"Gimme that guide book, this is driving me crazy!" Starsky parked himself on a large square planter and pulled the book out of Hutch's jacket pocket, humming a vaguely familiar tune under his breath.

Hutch had just deciphered the song as "Rock around the Clock" and had started to sing the lyrics, "When the clock strikes two, three and four . . ."

"American Graffiti!" Starsky shouted so loudly that an elderly couple walking by turned to stare at him. "George Lucas filmed parts of the cruising scene in American Graffiti right here!"

"That whole movie is one long cruise scene," Hutch said, looking over Starsky's shoulder at a picture of George Lucas directing Ron Howard standing by an old car with the Rafael theater in the background. "Says they filmed other parts in Petaluma. Must be another town near here."

"I'm gonna have to watch that movie again." Starsky nodded, striding down the sidewalk toward the bank so quickly that Hutch had to scramble to keep up.

Somehow, he wondered if he would ever keep up with Starsky. At least he'd always have the time of his life doing so. "I wouldn't mind seeing Suzanne Somers driving a white Thunderbird again myself."

"These new machines are the coolest idea any bank ever thought up," Starsky announced, inserting his card and receiving two twenty dollar bills.

"I still say they're a magnet for thieves," Hutch retorted, reviving a long-standing discussion. "Mark my words, someone will be forced to empty out the machine by some druggie with a gun."

"Aren't you just the optimist." Starsky pocketed the cash. "I don't think that's possible. There's probably only--I dunno, five hundred inside there. Not the whole Fort Knox." He trotted to the corner. "C'mon, Hutch. What could be better'n this? We got time on our hands, cash and margaritas waiting for us right over there."

"I'm in the mood for sangria," Hutch said, holding open the door to Las Camelias for his partner. It struck him that this was almost a date. He and Starsky, alone in a town where no one knew them. Maybe they could let loose just a little, hold hands under the table or even neck in a dark corner.

The restaurant was redolent with spicy tamales, chile peppers and sharp lime. It was also obviously popular, the front room overflowing with families eating out with their children. Laughter and loud chatter combined with the clink of silverware, creating a festive atmosphere and almost drowning out the mariachi music on the stereo.

Hutch curved his hand into the small of Starsky's back as they followed the waiter through an arch into a quieter section. It was just as Hutch had hoped, a dimly lit table set at an angle into the corner of the room so that they could both sit nearly side by side looking out at the other patrons. The waiter delivered a bowl of crispy tortilla chips and chunky tomato salsa full of yellow corn and green cilantro before Hutch even had a chance to pull out a chair. He made a gallant little gesture to Starsky, letting him sit down and pushing the chair in for him. Starsky weighed more than he'd expected.

"May I have a glass of sangria and a margarita for my friend?" he called out to the waiter.

"Plus two beers," Starsky added. "Real nice here, huh?" He planted his elbows on the table, grinning at Hutch. "Why do I have the feelin' you have some kind of agenda going on?"

"Reading my mind?" Hutch asked, taking a chip. It was lightly salted and still warm. He dipped it in salsa and was about to take a bite when Starsky did it for him.

"You stole my chip!" Hutch protested, licking the remains of the salsa off his fingers.

"Doncha know that possession in nine tenths of the law?" Starsky smirked, gleefully unrepentant.

"I did go to the police academy, you know." Hutch ate another chip very quickly just as the drinks arrived. His sangria was deep red with a cool fruity taste and a light after-buzz that proved it was wine and not a kiddie drink. He sat back, watching Starsky's tongue dart out to the salt around the edge of his margarita glass, surprised to find that he was content and happy. Odd how such an onerous task had turned into one of the nicer days in a long time. "We should come here some other time--on a real vacation, maybe camp up on that Mount Tamalpius or down by the water. Isn't there some place out to the west? I think I read there were some small towns where we could do some good fishing."

"You always want to camp!" Starsky said. "What about a Giants game in San Francisco on a Saturday and then just some hiking or something before we come back to a real good hotel that has cable and a pool."

"Hedonist," Hutch accused with a smile.

"Uh--nature lover," Starsky retorted, tossing a chip at him.

Their knees banged under the table and Hutch felt Starsky's sneaker-shod foot butt against his ankle, then rub up the back. Tiny chills went up both of Hutch's legs like guided missiles headed straight to his cock. "Starsky, why would we need a pool when the whole area is ringed with ocean water?"

"Because ocean water is practically freezing!"

"It is not--according to the book, the bay waters are 45 to 50 degrees," Hutch said with a professorial tone.

"Yeah, and you see what that does to your balls if you go skinny-dipping," Starsky dropped his voice into a husky whisper that only increased the constriction of Hutch's jeans directly in front.

The waiter arrived just at the right, or possibly wrong, moment to take their orders. Hutch chose a salmon burrito and Starsky the full enchilada--which turned out to be a enormous platter groaning with two carne enchiladas, rice, refried beans and a corn pudding.

"This is terrific, Hutch!" Starsky enthused, shoveling food in his mouth with frequent swallows of alcohol. He'd polished off the margarita before the meal came and switched to beer. He even took a sip of Hutch's sangria but turned up his nose at the sweet stuff.

Hutch predicted that both of them would be nicely looped by the end of the meal and ready for a soft mattress and some extra curricular activities. Starsky was sexy enough in his every day life, but lubricate him with liquor and he turned into a loose-limbed lover with a come-hither smile and enough energy to light a Las Vegas casino.

His own food was excellent. The salmon gave the burrito a subtle flavor, not as intense as some Mexican food could be, with a tantalizing mix of chile and spices. He found himself watching his partner eat, admiring the way Starsky could enjoy the meal so shortly after his difficult admissions about his childhood. He'd often wondered about the undiscussed periods of Starsky's life, but hadn't wanted to pry, since there were certainly periods in his past he didn't want to bring out into the light again. It was gratifying that Starsky trusted him enough to discuss them at all.

"Hutch," Starsky said when they were waiting for the check. The noise level had diminished in the last hour and Starsky was swaying to the mournful guitar riffs of some Mexican love song from the stereo. "Does that guide book say just who this guy Rafael is and why he got a town named after him?"

"That I do know." Hutch nodded with confidence. "He's one of the archangels. I think there were seven of them."

"That does sound kinda familiar, now that you mention it," Starsky peered at the bill the waiter deposited on the table and pulled the money out of his back pocket. "Guess I shoulda listened more when I took those bar mitzvah classes, huh?"

"Michael, Rafael." Hutch frowned, trying to remember the long ago catechism classes he'd taken as a boy. "Gabriel, Uriel, Sariel . . .not sure about the others."

Starsky stretched when he stood, arms back, displaying a broad expanse of shirt stretched tightly over developed chest muscles, firm nipples poking through the fabric. Hutch grinned at the sight.

"Wonder what those convicts out in Quentin feel like to be surrounded by all these saints and angels?" Starsky mused. "Saints and sinners all mixed together."

"Just like real life," Hutch followed Starsky out the door with the thought that he wouldn't mind being just a little sinful that evening.

"So, most of the mission cities are named after the missions, and therefore a saint," Starsky counted on his fingers. "San Rafael, Santa Barbara, San Juan . . ."

"San Francisco," Hutch reminded him, reorienting himself on Fourth Street. Where had they parked? He'd had just enough alcohol that his brain was slightly fuzzy. It was nice. "We parked on Fifth," he said brightly.

"Yeah, I knew that." Starsky laughed, tugging him across the street. "There's a bar with music over there. Wanna go?"

"No. Bed. You. Us," Hutch said.

"Sweet talker," Starsky nudged him with a pointy elbow. "So, LA and Bay City aren't saints, huh?"

"The entire name of Los Angeles is La Cuidad de los Angeles," Hutch said, pronouncing the 'G' in Angeles with the soft breathy sound of a real Mexican accent. "City of Angels. Don't you feel celestial when you're there?"

"Oh, yeah, that's why I always gotta to wear a jacket, to hide my feathery wings when I drive down Wilshire."

"As for Bay City, I always figured they just got that one plain wrong." Hutch waited until Starsky unlocked the rental car doors. "There are no bays around--but the priests who came up from Mexico long ago probably couldn't tell that."

"El Bayo Pacifico." Starsky mangled any semblance of a Mexican pronunciation. "Gives it a real exotic flare."

"Are you okay to drive?" Hutch asked, bemused. "Should I give you a breathalyzer test?"

"Nah, San Rafael ain't that big, and I'm great." As if to prove that bold statement, Starsky slid behind the wheel and reached across the car to open the passenger door. "Curb side cab service, sir? Where to?"

"Figaro Bed and Breakfast, on Belle," Hutch recited the address that Sydney had given them.

The drive over, even allowing for a minor amount of getting lost in the curving old streets of the Dominican area, was short. They pulled up across the street from a turn-of-the-century farmhouse painted in soft blues with a deeper shade for the trim. It was hard to make out the gingerbread trim details in the dark, but the front porch was lit with a welcoming sign that featured a black and white cat licking its paw.

"This must be the place," Starsky declared, hauling the overnight bags out of the trunk.

A soft breeze fluttered the leaves of night-blooming jasmine clustered around the front fence, the scent of the flowers wafting in the air. Hutch craned his head to look up at the sky. Light pollution dimmed the stars but he could still easily make out the Big Dipper and some smaller constellations twinkling in the liquid black. A three-quarter moon rode low on the horizon, glowing like a nightlight. He took in a deep breath, very satisfied with the day.

Watching Starsky cross the street, he had the oddest sensation that the situation with Cahill and Devereaux would end in a manner fitting the crimes involved but unsatisfying to the law. Just about the way he was beginning to feel about almost any case he and Starsky had dealt with lately. There was no perfect solution to all the wrongs of the world, just little stopgaps, like temporary plugs in a dike. He'd once thought that he could make a difference-- be the buffer between badness and good people. Now he knew that he couldn't even always keep himself and his partner safe. But as long as he kept plugging along, putting the criminals behind bars, at least he was trying to make their little corner of Bay City a better place, and that was a hell of a lot more than some people did.

"Hey," Starsky called back with a chuckle. "You gonna stand there in the middle of the street contemplating the heavens or you coming inside where it's warm? Where there's a bed?"

"It's warm enough." Starsky expected the argument, probably thrived on the fact that they didn't always agree on the most basic subjects and yet still could move together as if forged from the same piece of steel. Hutch looked up just as an older version of Sydney came out on the porch, waving at them.

"Are you the detectives?" she asked, smiling. She was as tall as her sister, but where Sydney had been the epitome of the '80s career woman, Roberta was the picture of the aging flower child. Her long hair was streaked with silver, and she wore Birkenstocks under a flowing gypsy skirt decorated with tiny bells that jingled when she walked. "C'mon in! I just made a pot of chamomile tea and some carob chip cookies."

"That sounds wonderful," Hutch said, ducking under the jasmine hung arbor that arched over the front walk. "I'm Ken Hutchinson."

"Dave Starsky," Starsky added. "Glad your sister told us about this place, or we'd be up a creek without a paddle."

"I heard about the case you were working on. One of the little girls--Melissa Pine, was born in San Anselmo, not five miles from here, and they'd only moved down your way a few months before she disappeared." Roberta showed them into a cheery home decorated in an eclectic style that was part elegant and part whimsical. "The local paper was full of the story. So very sad."

"That's why you can see that we need to get this guy out of Quentin and down to testify," Starsky muttered, obviously tired of the subject. As usual when entering a place he'd never been before, Starsky began to roam around the living room, examining the knick-knacks and bric-a-brac. He cocked his head, peering closely at a leering mask. "Is this made by the Huichal Indians in Mexico?"

"Yes, it is! You have a very good eye!" Roberta said happily. She handed Hutch a registration form and he filled it in for both of them, knowing that if Starsky found something of interest, he'd be fixated for a while.

Roberta joined her newest guest, picking up a smaller piece. "I collect primitive art. This one is from Sedona, in Arizona, but the craftsmanship is so similar to the Huichal piece that I'm certain their must have been some kind of link between the two native peoples, probably through the vortexes that run through the red rock there like dimensional portals. Sedona is an extremely spiritual place. Have you been there?"

"No, but it sounds right up Hutch's alley." Starsky grinned at his partner with such mischievousness that Hutch felt a molten heat start at his groin and go straight up his body.

Damn, what Starsky could do to him.

"Hutch is great at meditating."

"You practice TM?" Roberta gushed, the bells on her skirt ringing raucously when she turned around.

"I try," Hutch said. "It does help with the stress."

"It does, indeed--I've had so many wonderful spiritual journeys, following my liberated being over the cosmos to far off galaxies . . ." Roberta smiled serenely. "Quite often, I use the hot tub afterwards to center into my body once more. You're welcome to . . ."

"Roberta, let the guests get settled." A tall, rangy man came down the stairs. He had the good-natured smile of someone who loves his mate and still recognizes their foibles. "Good evening, I'm Jasper Ghirardelli. The rooms are at the top of the stairs . . ."

"Our department only pays for one, with two beds," Starsky explained with a straight face, but his eyes blazed when he glanced at Hutch.

"Whatever floats your boat, gentlemen," Jasper said with a wry grin. "I left some cookies and tea on the table up in the Peacock room."

"Have restful and fulfilling dreams!" Roberta waved merrily.

"Thank you very much for your hospitality." Hutch wondered if anyone could tell that he was burning up inside, between the raunchy looks he was getting from Starsky and the implication that Jasper assumed they'd be sleeping together. He lead the way up the narrow stairs, hefting his own bag, very much aware of Starsky directly behind him. In fact, when he stopped to open the bedroom door, Starsky stood so close that Hutch could feel the jut of his partner's erection hard against his butt cheeks.

"There's only one bed," Starsky said sotto voce.

 _So that was how it was going to be?_ Hutch had no objection. He dumped his bag on the floor, wasting no time in pulling Starsky into his arms. "You've been pushing every one of my buttons since we arrived here," he complained while peppering Starsky with kisses. "You trying to get laid right in the foyer?"

"Whatever floats your boat." Starsky laughed against Hutch's lips, slipping his tongue in until Hutch was sure that talented tongue was tickling his uvula. "Or any other part of your anatomy that floats in the water."

"You said yourself that the ocean was cold enough to freeze a guy's nuts," Hutch gasped when Starsky sucked on his bottom lip and pushed a hand up under his shirt to rub against his navel. It was one of Hutch's favorite places to be touched, especially when Starsky did that oh-so-delicate sweep across the surface of his abdomen, circling the belly button and then traveling south. All with the tip of one finger. "And I'm blazing here, so no skinny dipping tonight or it'll put out the flames," Hutch managed to talk despite the action going down below. "I want a . . ." Starsky was unzipping Hutch's zipper in a most provocative way. "Uh . . . man, you make me hot."

"Burn, baby, burn." Starsky hummed "Disco Inferno" and pushed Hutch's shirt all the way off. He left a warm trail down between Hutch's nipples with his tongue, moving around his navel and down to the blond bush surrounding his cock.

Steam should have been rising around them like tule fog in the San Fernando Valley, obscuring everything but the two of them. Hutch sighed with pleasure when Starsky's mouth settled on his dick, slicking the long length with warm, moist heat.

"Lie back on the bed," Starsky directed, taking a momentary break from his task. "Get comfortable, I plan to be at this for a good long time."

"I haven't got any other plans," Hutch murmured, folding aside the blue and green peacock print bedspread. He stretched out full-length, the well-washed cotton sheets soft against his naked skin, and spread his arms and legs wide to accommodate Starsky's actions. He was panting when Starsky sucked and licked his cock, all the while palming his sac. Little jagged volts of pure electricity zinged through his core, setting off tiny explosions that fed his lust like underbrush in a wild fire.

Lava flowing down a mountainside. Hot, thick fudge over sweetness--that was Starsky's mouth. Hutch grabbed the sheets in both hands, gripping as Starsky worked his magic. And magic it was--Hutch was suddenly sure that the entire bed lifted off the floor, twirled around and settled back down in the exact place it had left as if nothing had happened. Except Hutch had flown.

He was utterly and totally relaxed, every muscle turned completely to jelly. He was sleepy and wanted nothing more than to turn on his side and snooze.

"Like that, did you?" Starsky asked, dropping his jeans on the floor with a careless flick of the wrist.

"You got talent where other people are absolutely fucking ordinary."

"High praise," Starsky nuzzled his cheek, kissing Hutch on the neck and then the collarbone. "You up to turning on your side?"

"That's about all I'm up to," Hutch laughed, shifting his left leg over so that the rest of his body swung around and he was up on his right hip. Somehow, the feel of Starsky's hands bracketing his pelvis in the back was waking him up, and he smiled to himself, knowing what was coming next. "I can't see you from here."

"But I'm right here, just like always," Starsky assured him. "Where else would I be?"

"You're doing all the work," Hutch protested, although it was just a token objection.

"I've got your back," Starsky said, running his forefinger straight down Hutch's spine.

Although his vertebrae were not usually erogenous zones, Hutch gasped, suddenly drunk on the tiny fizzy bubbles that seemed to percolate right though his skin. "Star-sk!" He squirmed, sure that this must be some exquisite torture designed to make him crack. Had Starsky been questioning him in an interrogation room, Hutch would have confessed to every unsolved crime on the books just to get Starsky to continue delicately tracing every whorl and scar on his back.

"Just gonna shove . . ." Starsky said, his voice slightly muffled with his lips pressed up against Hutch's shoulder. "And go right inside you, angel-boy."

Hutch felt the insistent press of a thick, blunt cock at his opening and wiggled to center Starsky more correctly in place. He was sure there must be a magnet deep inside his being that drew in Starsky's steel-cored shaft. Even so, he grunted when the sleek invader pushed past the tight muscle and entered him.

God.

He couldn't think past the fullness, the incredible wonder filling him up. Every time Starsky was inside him, it was like the first time, all over again. The same awe swept through him, that he and Starsky were joined as one--no longer just best friends, standing shoulder to shoulder, but one majestic creature; so perfectly formed that no living thing could tear them apart.

He pulled his knees to his chest to force Starsky further in, very aware of the hot body pressed tightly against his back, both arms wrapped around him. Hutch latched onto Starsky's hands, bringing their arms together across his chest. He was wrapped in Starsky, consumed by Starsky and yet felt like he was a floating on a cloud, snuggled against his lover.

Starsky rocked against him, pulling him out of his reverie, and moaned, long and sensual. Hutch wanted to hear that sound again, forever. He rolled his head back enough that he could just see the side of Starsky's face, the sharp bridge of his nose and the disheveled curls over his brow just as Starsky stiffened, his whole body shuddering with a release that vibrated through Hutch's very bones. It was as if he'd come twice.

"Oh, man . . ." Starsky whispered, panting. "Was there an earthquake?"

Hutch chuckled, turning completely around to look into Starsky's face. His partner's eyes were heavy-lidded, about to slide into sleep. "There's an earthquake every day in some part of California," he said affectionately. "We got lucky with this one. We're probably the only two people on Earth who felt it."

"Tha's good," Starsky muttered, his eyes closing all the way.

Hutch smiled drowsily, wondering if he had enough strength to go brush his teeth before he fell asleep, too. He loved sleeping next to Starsky, watching all that volatile energy mellow slowly into relaxation. Sometimes, just sitting beside Starsky was exhausting. But sleeping next to him, with his breathing rasping in Hutch's ear, was peace pure and simple.

Except Starsky wasn't sleeping. He grumbled, snorted and then came up on one elbow, abruptly awake. "Hutch! We never called that doctor at the prison."

"I thought you were sleeping," Hutch grumped, now thoroughly awake. "I suspect it's too late to call Villanova now. I'll do it first thing in the morning."

"Gotta take a leak." Starsky stumbled out of bed, scratching his hairy belly. "And I'm all sticky."

"Take a shower, then." Hutch propped himself up with a pillow, trying to decide if he wanted one, too. Probably a good idea. "You want to share? Remember that bumper sticker we saw? Save Water, Shower with a Friend?"

"There was another one that said, Save Water, Drink Wine," Starsky chuckled, turning on the tap in the bathroom. "C'mon in, Hutch, the water's fine. And we can do our part for water conservation."

"I'd love to do more than that," Hutch said wistfully, climbing out of bed with an eye on his partner's ass. "But I'm too sleepy."

"Mmm." Starsk curved a hand around Hutch's neck, leading him under the spray. "I'll give you a raincheck, cause I'm about ready to drop, too."

"Must be a first -- David Starsky too tired to fuc . . ." Hutch teased and was kissed in the shower before he finished his sentence. Laughing, Hutch pulled away and grabbed the soap, launching into, "Singing in the rain, just singing in the rain . . ."

"What a glorious feeling, I'm happy again," Starsky finished, laughing, too.

Despite some to decidedly licentious thoughts every time Hutch rubbed against Starsky in the narrow bathroom as he grabbed a towel, he found he really was too tired to do anything more than kiss the back of Starsky's damp neck.

Starsky murmured drowsily, dripping on the tile floor and tugged at Hutch's towel instead of getting another one for himself. Hutch relinquished the towel with a laugh and pulled a second one off the bar.

They both piled back into bed stark naked, but clean. After the long day, sleep came quickly, and Hutch dreamed of hiking up a trail on Mount Tamalpius, followed by a grumbling but randy Starsky. When they got to a grassy field, they spread a blanket and made love under the blue skies until a menacing shadow fell over their slumbering bodies. An indistinct dark hand raised a knife and swung it down toward them, a raucous ringing like the music from Psycho underscoring his actions.

Hutch sat up with a gasp, his heart thundering, and grabbed the clamoring phone next to the bed. "H'llo?" he slurred, still half in the dream.

"Is Detective Sergeant Ken Hutchinson or Detective Sergeant David Starsky there, please?" asked a voice that Hutch didn't recognize.

"Yes, I'm Hutchinson," he said.

"Who's calling?" Starsky crawled out of his nest of blankets, sitting up against the headboard carved with peacocks.

"Let me put you through to Sydney McNear," the woman said.

"Sydney, Devereaux's lawyer." Hutch waited through the transfer, thoroughly confused. He dug his pocket watch out of the pants on the floor next to the bed. "It's just six," he said, showing the watch to his partner who had pulled the blankets up around himself as if planning to go back to sleep.

"Why so early?" Starsky ran his fingers through his tousled curls, disarranging them even more.

"Hello, Ken," Sydney's voice came on the line. "Sorry to disturb you so early in the morning. I wasn't sure if you went over to my sister's, but I took the chance . . ."

"Sydney, what's going on?" Hutch asked.

"I just got word from Chester Mortonson, the D. A. in Bay City. Alvin Cahill killed himself in his holding cell this morning."

"How?" Hutch took in a sharp breath. "I thought he was being watched!" He leaned against Starsky, putting the phone between them to they could both hear.

"Apparently not closely enough," Sydney said with a sigh.

"Damn," Starsky inserted.

"My exact sentiments, when I heard," she agreed. "He shattered the light bulb despite the little cage surrounding it and sliced his wrists. Anyway, there's no need to escort Devereaux to Bay City."

"The case is over," Hutch concluded. Starsky's body went tight. He slugged his pillow and climbed out of bed, all coiled intensity barely held in check.

"Terrible business, but sometimes things work out in ways we never expected," Sydney mused. "Sorry again to have to wake you so early in the morning."

"Uh . . ." Hutch tried to collect his thoughts. Everything had changed in a heartbeat, the suspect taking matters into his own hands and saving the state from having to pay for his trial and execution. "How's your client doing? Did Devereaux actually have a heart attack?"

"Doctor Villanova is a cautious man," Sydney said. "but at least when I called Foster in the infirmary last night, he was feeling much better. Thanks for asking. I'll let you go, maybe you both can have a mini vacation now that your assignment is moot."

"We did that yesterday afternoon." Hutch looked up at his partner, judging his mood. Starsky stood pensively next to the window, looking out at the street, the muscles in his back bunched like fists. "But we have to go back to our neck of the woods now. Nice to meet you, Sydney."

"You, too. Hopefully I'll go down your way for that convention." She chuckled. "I told my partner all about you two. Cassandra wants to meet you. Come back up again and we'll give you the Cook's tour. Brie at the Cheese Factory in Nicasio and wine in some of the back roads wineries."

"Sounds good to me." Hutch left the phone on the cradle, approaching Starsky. "Hey, buddy, what are you thinking?'

"Fuck." Starsky shoved his hands into the air as if trying to push the anger away. "I wanted . . . I wanted him judged, sentenced. This is . . . hell, it solves things but it ain't satisfying. You know?" He growled, prowling the small space between the bed and the window like a caged tiger and then stopped, taking in a deep breath.

"Yeah, I know," Hutch agreed. With Starsky's ire burned out, it was safe to pull him into a rough hug. "All those kids he hurt must have preyed on his mind more than anyone would have realized."

"More like he just didn't want to have to go through a trial and spend the rest of his unnatural life in jail." Starsky grabbed his jeans from the floor and shook the wrinkles out.

"At least maybe their families will get some kind of closure out of this." He could still see those bright, shining faces grinning from their school photos.

"My ma used to say "who told you life was fair," Starsky said. "When I was real little, I thought fair meant a carnival, that she was sayin' I couldn't ride on the merry-go-round. Now I know life is one long ride around in a circle and there are days I just want to get off." He shrugged, butting his head against Hutch's cheek. "Yesterday, we kind of got that. It was good."

"It was great." Hutch spread his palm against Starsky's back, smoothing the strong muscles. "And if you play your cards right, I can get you a ticket on a big silver plane in the sky and a flight back to another Bay City in a couple of hours."

"What cards would those be?" Starsky asked with an intriguing mixture of coy and weariness.

"Jack of hearts?" Hutch pretended to pop Starsky in the chest, placing his other hand over Starsky's breastbone so that now he held him on both sides. He could feel the thrum of Starsky's heart vibrating through the tiny bones in his fingers.

"Hey, I'm the king, you can be the jack . . ." Starsky dropped his jeans over a chair. "In fact, looks like Jack just came out of his box." He grabbed hold of the long appendage jutting between Hutch's legs and gently tugged, humming "Pop goes the Weasel."

"Better stuff him back in," Hutch said, shivers of arousal tingling across his skin every time Starsky stroked his length. His cock, already fully erect, seemed to swell larger, aching for release.

"I can do better than that." Starsky let go, brushing his hip against Hutch instead. Just that brief contact sent off red and green firecrackers in the back of Hutch's eyes.

"Starsk," he said, his voice husky with need. "I'm not going to last long. Lie down."

"Been wanting to go back to bed," Starsky agreed, gathering the pillows into a mound.

Hutch shoved him down, suddenly needing to bury himself in that warm, inviting body to renew himself. Starsky chuckled, giving no resistance, bracing himself on his elbows and knees, the pillows propping his butt up high enough that Hutch didn't have to bend down.

"There'll be no sleeping this time, though." He located the lube Starsky must have left on the bedside table from the night before and slicked himself over, pinching down just a little on the base of his cock to forestall orgasm long enough to slide into his lover's body.

"Wonder why they call it sleeping together, then?" Starsky asked.

"Rhetorical questions will get you nowhere, Officer," Hutch cautioned him and thrust.

Starsky gasped, grabbing hold of the blue and green coverlet with both hands. When Hutch entered him, he seemed to freeze, caught between pulling away and pushing back. For a moment, time stood still; Hutch could almost feel the air on his skin solidifying around him, immobilizing them in this miraculous place. Then Starsky rocked back, impaling himself fully on Hutch's shaft. It was like being sucked into a vortex. Hutch had to lock onto Starsky's hips or risk being drawn completely into the center of Starsky's being. Not a bad place to linger, but he knew he couldn't stay there forever.

Hutch moaned, Starsky's inner muscles contracting around him like bands of steel, wringing him out. He wanted to shout, to celebrate, but it was only six am and their hosts were probably still sleeping. He wrapped his arms more fully around Starsky's swaying body and grabbed hold of the convenient rod he found hanging down below.

Starsky sucked in a startled breath, wheezing out, "Huuutch."

That was all it took, Hutch came gloriously, pumping himself into his lover's soul. Starsky's cock bucked in Hutch's hands, the balls hot and heavy where they bumped against his wrists and he sensed Starsky's orgasm just as Starsky did, the tiny spasms telegraphing through his skin even before Starsky shot into the pillows.

"That put the morning off to a better start?" Hutch asked, tossing the soiled pillows aside to lie down on the bed curled around Starsky.

"Makes most days a whole lot better," Starsky agreed. "Guess we gotta call Dobey before we leave, huh?"

"It's still early, Dobey doesn't usually get in until seven." Hutch lay back, keeping contact with Starsky's warm body. "We've got time."

"Breakfast then?" Starsky suggested, his blue eyes suddenly shining with enthusiasm. "And not some gruesome healthy crap but a good old American spread with eggs, pancakes, bacon, sausage, hash browns . . ."

"After that load of heart attack on a plate, you'll waddle back into BC," Hutch scoffed.

"Aw, Hutchinson, you're no fun at all." Starsky ran a tickling finger down Hutch's ribcage, eliciting stifled laughter from his victim. "It's patriotic or something to eat that in the morning. You're beginning to sound like an old fogey."

"Well, Junior, I'll ask Roberta if there's an IHOP in this burg," Hutch drawled in his best imitation of his grandfather's Minnesota accent.

Even Hutch had some pancakes for breakfast, since there were buckwheat griddlecakes on the menu, with boysenberry syrup. Starsky indulged in chocolate chip pancakes smothered in strawberries, as well as eggs, bacon and sausage. He was nearly waddling when they walked back to the car.

"Nice place," Starsky commented as Hutch drove back down Fourth Street.

Hutch glanced to his left as they passed the mission up one block. The bells in the tower of the more modern church just next to the chapel were pealing, ringing out a greeting for the new day. "Seems like a contradiction. A mission and a prison almost cheek by jowl. But yeah, I liked it here."

"Home, James," Starsky commanded, pointing to the freeway on ramp. "Set a course for Bay City."

"Who do you think I am, Mr. Sulu? We're headed for an airport. I don't fly planes."

"You don't look a thing like Sulu. You could be Spock with all your insistence on logic and reason." Starsky regarded him with a critical frown. "'Cept, wrong coloring. Nobody on the Enterprise looks like you, y'know? There was some bizarre sex planet with some freakishly blond people on it . . ."

"I've seen that episode," Hutch countered. "It wasn't a sex planet. So what do you mean, you consider blond hair freakish?"

"Nah, not all blonds," Starsky grinned impishly and Hutch knew he was being had. "Just yours."

Hutch adjusted his sunglasses against the glare of the sun over the San Pablo Bay and smiled to himself. This was the way it should be, he and Starsky, side by side, disagreeing about almost everything and yet closer than two people should every be.

Out over the water, where the waves lapped up against a thickly wooded island just a few miles off shore, two gulls wheeled and dove, in perfect symmetry. Hutch nodded to them, feeling his ears pop as they sped up a grade to enter the rainbow tunnel, leaving Marin behind.

FIN


End file.
